


And when Miranda sang (everyone turned away)

by mocat (TarryTheTarMonster)



Category: No Fandom
Genre: 1940s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Freeform, Gen, Human Trafficking, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Pedophilia, bear with me guys, i swear this gets better guys, will add more tags as i go on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27709214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarryTheTarMonster/pseuds/mocat
Summary: Used to the noose they obey-Tilly Arett isn't fond of child trafficking rings.He wants out, and he's gonna figure out how to take innocent little Charlie with him.(Warning: not only is this story gonna be very unedited, it's also going to contain non-sexual but still graphic depictions of child abuse, child trafficking, child murder, and of course child rape. If you don't think you can handle any of this, DON'T CLICK. If you can, give me some feedback mate.)
Kudos: 1





	And when Miranda sang (everyone turned away)

“This wasn’t part of the deal..”

As I stared into a black square of darkness that ol’ Peter here called ‘the final part of the deal’ I could feel my entire damn life flashing by my eyes. After this life was done flashing like some street whore it was quickly and efficiently sucked up by the square-shaped black hole that sat in front of me. The fucker’s hand was wound tightly around my arm like a belt, I was leaning forward with my toes just barely behind the edge and I felt like I was gonna fucking die.

And then he let go.

I could just hear the sharp chuckle and the sound of the trap door shutting over the sounds of me tumbling down some wooden stairs that had suddenly appeared to ‘most graciously’ break my fall. Once I had reached the bottom, I sat blinking as my dumbass eyes tried to get used to the lack of light. And once I did, I realized two things.

1\. I’m locked in the basement of a man who I know for a fact wouldn’t have any quarrels with fucking a fourteen-year-old boy.  
2\. There’s at least eight other kids in here.

It was then I knew that I, Tilly Clemintine Arett, fucked up. Big time.

As you can probably tell, this ain’t a normal Tuesday for me. When it comes to dealing with customers it’s always the bloody same: meet the guy, let him do his thing, get paid, and maybe lift a few things if you’re lucky. This is how it should be, it’s how it’s always been, but I had to be a greedy little shit and go after the promise of a fix and now here I fucking am, stuck in a goddamned basement with eight other kids who looked like they haven’t seen the light in ages.

Now that I think about it, I’m probably right.

This was my first memory of this dark, horrid hell the kids have dubbed ‘the basement’. The basement had two rooms, a small powder room with a toilet that barely worked and a place that looked to have once held a sink. Maybe in the middle ages. The other room was the basement itself, a 9x3 room with a rotten mattress that’s probably filled with bugs. That’s it, no blankets, nothing else other than a fucking mattress.

Nobody used it anyway.

We was given food I think twice a day, it was hard to tell since the basement had no windows and when we leave weren’t able to see outside due to tin foil windows. Once before we left, and once after.

What did we do while we was gone? I’m in a fucking child trafficking ring, what do you expect?

I hadn’t ever had this much variety in customers. You had your standard people: cops, pastors, former boy scout troop leaders, politicians, the shebang. But this guy Peter must’ve had a fucking monopoly on the business because I saw a lot of new faces. Family men, gangsters, teachers, even quite a few women. The women were always the worse, usually with the men you could simply just sit back and forget about it. What I mean is that you can take yourself and kinda just.. uh, float yourself out of your body. So you aren’t feeling anything that’s happening to you. Most people achieve this with drugs, but if you’ve been in the business as long as I have you kinda figure out how to do this without the morphine. Though that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be opposed to it.

Anyways, the problem with women is that you actually have to do something. You can’t just sit there and do nothing, you gotta actually do the broads. And that makes it a million times worse. I hate it.

For the longest time, that’s how life went. I was the only kid in the basement who was actually enthusiastic about the routine, so I got the ability to sit back and watch the kids come and go from the room. From what I hear the kids leave for two reasons, the first being that they’ve become the favorite of some rich fuck who decided to fork over a stack of money to Peter and his crew (it took me a while to realize he had a crew, okay?) for one of the kids. The other reason is that the kid is too disobedient and bratty to be used properly so they get removed. I’ve heard rumors before I went into this timeless hell of kids being found dead in rivers too battered and decomposed to even be recognized.

As you can see, both of these options fucking terrified me. I didn’t want to become a senator’s whore, but I didn’t want to die either.

So I kept my head down and did as I was told while trying to be sexy, and people loved it. 

I became the basement veteran. Cool title, am I right?

Then Charlie came in.

Charlie was a blue-eyed blondie from some poor hooligan town called Las Vegas in Nevada, a boy who loved birds and pine trees and was too impossibly innocent for the shit he’d found himself in. He’d been visiting his distant family with his mother in Tennesee and was offered some new toy by a kind young man with a sharp smile. Instead of a toy he was stuffed into the trunk of a car bound and gagged, and had been driven all the way down here until finally being stuffed in the basement.

He’d still called a dick a pee-pee.

I remember when he had his first day, we was removed from the rooms one at a time to prevent chaos and the possibility to escape, and I was the first one back in. Charlie was second, and even though I couldn’t see him I could tell he was crying and fucking terrified. I held him as he sobbed, crying for his mama while I watched the other kids slowly trickle in, and I think my heart broke than it ever has.

Because goddamn, this kid didn’t deserve this shit. He deserved to be playing on those desert streets that Charlie had so vividly described, he deserved to be going to school and learning how to read and write and do so much better than I ever did. Not be stuck in this black hell we all was stuck in getting it hard cause boys can take it.

He was only nine, for fuck’s sake.

I had to get him out of there.

I had to get him home.

No matter what it takes.

**Author's Note:**

> mocat doesn't like sleep apparently but hey, I started this and I'll finish it, maybe, mocat don't know


End file.
